


handmade

by comptine



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22118014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comptine/pseuds/comptine
Summary: Shin was looking for Shadows of Yor sympathizers within the New Monarchy. Drifter was just looking for a good time.
Relationships: Shin Malphur/Original Male Character(s), The Drifter/Shin Malphur
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	handmade

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fic in about ten thousand years but here we are. shout out to @beastofthesky for betaing this mess ilu and the s/d fandom in general for writing the hashtag Good Shit

Shin hadn’t known the Drifter owned formalwear.

The clothes he’s seen the Drifter wear were practical. Made of wool, leather, natural fabrics that could withstand the cold. For all Drifter’s eccentricities, Shin has found the man’s obsession with keeping his clothes pristine the most peculiar. It’s fascinating, watching him thread a needle, clamp it between his lips as he searched for a hole in his robes.

Still, Shin assumed that clothing, along with everything else the Drifter did, stemmed from being practical.

The outfit the Drifter sports across the roomful of New Monarchy nobles is anything but.

His coat, the same silhouette as his robes, is a rich emerald that stood out among the reds and whites of the crowd. It’s the Drifter’s, Gambit’s, colour but made of expensive, heavy silk that catches the light, showing the brocaded snakes curling across the fabric. It rests over his shoulders, the sleeves unoccupied and the whole garment flowing after each calculated laugh and gesture the Drifter makes. Gold and red thread circle the sleeves and his collar, braided into simple patterns that all resolve into the intertwined snakes. From behind, the Drifter looks all at once like himself and someone else entirely.

Shin sips his champagne.

The Drifter must feel his gaze, paranoia turning him, showing Shin the rest of his dress.

Always that same profile, fabric folded, wrapped across his broad chest. Like the Drifter knew what was comfortable, what was the easiest to have in a fight, what hinted at an hourglass figure hidden underneath the beautifully made robe.

A snowy white collar wrapped up around his neck, the jade pendant resting at what little of the shirt was visible before it dipped down into a soft black jacket. The length of it just grazed the tops of his thighs. The buttons were gold, to match the embroidery at his robe’s sleeves. Cinched around his waist was a thick sash, a darker green as his robes, red and gold cords tied neatly as a final detail.

All that was missing was his revolver, a gaudy threat.

Shin remembers the Drifter bent over his work table while Shin recovered in his sleeping bag. He’d assumed the work was another set of armour for one of the Guardians delving into the Haul but now the emerald fabric makes more sense. Not the snake curling over a doomed Guardian’s shoulders, but an extension of the man before him. Shin didn’t know if it was charming that Drifter put as much work into the Red War’s hero’s capes as he does with his own clothing.

But, dressed so richly, in a garment so clearly lovingly made, Drifter makes a statement, makes Shin feel underdressed in his hastily rented suit.

When their eyes meet across the room, it takes the Drifter a second to recognise him. His curiosity fades into a knowing sneer, which Shin returns with a delicate tilt of his champagne flute.

This City’s getting too small for the pair of them.

Drifter turns back to the pretty faces he’d been schmoozing and Shin walks off to get some air. The balcony overlooking the gardens maintained at the Red Keep was the best view of the Traveler aside from the Tower. Shin lets his arms rest against a marble railing, staring up at the curious machine. He didn’t usually contemplate it, content to let it hang there with no answers, even split apart, “awake” again.

“You stalkin’ me or somethin’?”

Shin doesn’t move from the railing, glass dangling from his fingers precariously. Drifter takes up a spot beside him, leaning on the carefully chiselled marbled like it’s the rusted railing in the Annex or the frostbitten metal of the Derelict.

Practical.

It reads casual at first glance, but it really kept his back safe from a knife that might appear from the shimmering gowns of the nobility inside. Shin figured from the gardens below, he could throw one that would dig right between those emerald-cloaked shoulders. His eyes travel down from said shoulders to his tapered waist. 

Shin’s tongue wets his lips.

“Eyes up.”

Drifter’s gloved hand grazes Shin’s jaw and the fastest gun in the system is slow on the draw to catch his wrist, pushing it away from his face.

“Why’re you here?” He asks, trying to salvage his lapse in concentration.

“Ah, ah. I asked first.”

Shin shifts a little, hand still touching the Drifter’s. The gloves were cut just shy of his wrist and Shin feels the uptick in his pulse where skin meets skin.

“Heard a noble was poking around the Shadows. Thinking about becoming a sponsor.”

Drifter whistles, attention flickering to the party inside as though from a look he can tell who the sympathiser is. “You gonna kill ‘em?”

Shin doesn't bother answering, doesn’t want to get into it here, the morals of it all. He has a job, and Drifter is a distraction. He finishes his drink, leaves the glass balanced on the railing, and leaves with his back wide open to the Drifter. There’s no knife between his shoulders, just a bark of knowing laughter.

It takes another hour of conversation and flirting with nobility, making rounds with foundry owners and crucible sponsors before Shin can even get close to his target. Eventually, an old matron takes Shin’s arm, preening that he must meet her grandson, and leads the hunter to a quieter section of the palace. Where the elite of the elite gathers.

The target, Oberon, has a Ghost and an ease to his smile that makes Shin hate and envy him in the same instant. A smile that spoke of life without trial, without loss, without a care.

Silver spoon and a Ghost.

Some people were just too lucky for Shin’s taste.

But he buries that jealousy and offers a hand to Oberon while his grandmother introduces them. 

“My grandson, Oberon Marquardt, and this is-”

Oberon grips Shin’s hand with all the promise in the world. “The man with the Golden Gun. I didn’t expect a legend like you to have time for a little get together like this, Malphur.” Oberon’s hazel eyes crinkle with his smile, flecks of gold catching the slight shimmer brushed across high-cheekbones. Even his clothes, warlock robes fashioned after suits of a bygone era, has hints of gold, threaded underneath the dark silks.

Shin shrugs, matching Oberon’s ease. When their eyes met, Oberon’s hand pulls away, fingers lingering with an entirely different kind of promise. “I like to make time, when it matters.” He lets a shadow of a smile plays at his lips, all Orsa.

But it’s all Shin the way he gravitates towards Oberon. And Oberon doesn’t make any move to stop him. Among the elite of the elite, they move closer over the evening. Shin tells himself that it’s to get the lead, to nip this in the bud before it gets out of control. To make sure Oberon doesn’t turn to the Shadows, doesn’t lend the considerable fortune to their operations. Operations Shin had started, sure, but operations he had no intent of letting get out of control. Unlimited glimmer and political weight would tip those scales.

That was his reasoning for drawing closer to Oberon. The ache in his chest has different plans, plans that keep getting out of hand everytime Oberon smiles at him, or brushes their arms together. Or when he places his hand in Shin’s and ghosts them away, deeper into the Red Keep. Shin knows he should keep his wits about him, but all he can think of is the bare, unmarked skin of Oberon’s throat and how much he wants to claim it.

Oberon’s office is nice, far as Shin could tell. He isn’t really focused on it, more interesting is Oberon himself, dragging Shin against the desk to slot their hips together and kiss him. Most of his flings aren’t this forward, waiting for him to make the moves and Shin wasn’t against the possessive fingers at his hips, the press of the desk into the small of his back. So he lets Oberon run the show, placing his hand in Oberon’s hair as a threat, a warning.

It only seems to thrill the warlock more, a thigh slotting between Shin’s, pressing up just so. Shin’s fingers tighten in the thick hair and Oberon responds by deepening the kiss. His teeth graze Shin’s lips and a soft sound leaves him, tucked into the air between them. Shin desperately wants to hear that sound again and pulls at Oberon’s hair.

Guiding the warlock away from the hungry kiss, Shin focuses on the neck he wanted to claim, to leave a mark on this man’s perfect life. Something for all the other nobility to see. Maybe a warning, maybe just a chance to show that even perfect things could be marred. Oberon makes the same little breathy sound as Shin nips and kisses along the column of his throat.

Shin drops both his hands to the thick belt keeping Oberon’s robes together and in retaliation, Oberon’s hand finds its way into Shin’s hair. Not a warning as Shin’s grip had been, but possessive that makes Shin want to bare his teeth and eat Oberon alive.

“Are you here to kill me?” Oberon asks, a thrill in his voice that echoed in the commandeering grip in Shin’s hair.

Shin pauses.

Oberon’s head cocks. 

His tone changes, from thrilled to pitying. It digs a hole straight through Shin’s gut. “What? Isn’t that why you’re here? Didn’t my little play work?”

Shin shoves away from him and in that space between them, the weight of the Last Word sinks into his waiting hand. Oberon doesn’t so much as flinch when the gun presses against his gut. The warlock lounges back against the desk as the two circle each other, looking debased and smug all in one. His robes barely open, ruffled from Shin’s hands, the wet sheen to his smirking mouth, the glint of his eyes as they rove over the Last Word and the man behind the gun.

“Talk.”

Oberon sighs, starting to fix his robes, whatever game he was playing clearly over. The muzzle of the Last Word never drifts from Oberon’s chest. “I’ve heard that you’re easy with people who you think are a threat,” Oberson says, smoothing his collar over the hint of the mark Shin had started, “I threw some bribes around, knowing you’d follow. Like a dog on the hunt.”

Shin’s hand tightens, but he schools his face into a murderous indifference.

“I just thought you’d be a fun lay.” Oberon straightens his coat, any hint that Shin had been with him, mere seconds earlier, erased. “And what a notch in my bedpost you would’ve been, Malphur.”

Oberon leaves. Shin waits until his footsteps recede before he slumps onto the desk. The Last Word rests on the oak wood, gleaming in the Traveler’s light. He musses hands through his hair, already unkempt from Oberon, until the slicked back strands fall across his face and he rubs away the hint of colour he’d placed at the corners of eyes.

No matter how old he gets, how much the world tries, his heart is still so young and foolish.

He considers raiding the office for booze, a small revenge, but his instincts are buzzing under his skin. Something feels odd, off, and the hairs on the back of Shin’s neck stand on end as he takes a quick stock of the room. Light shines from the door, but a shadow lingers at the edges of the golden warmth streaming in below the door.

The Last Word is in his hand in an instant, hammer clicking back, loud and fierce in the silence. He levels it at the door, watching the shadows underneath recoil at the ringing hammer.

“Hey now, don’t go ruinin’ a nice door like that.”

Drifter enters the room hip first, his hands raised, mocking, despite the real fear in his eyes.

Shin lowers the gun; Drifter lowers his hands.

“Swanky place.” Drifter moves about the room, snatching things from shelves, some of the precious trinkets disappearing into his sleeves. “You do like gettin’ frisky in all kinds’a places.

Shin thinks about this. Thinks about the stuffy office, complete with a too-large desk and a real, completely useless, fireplace. The flame roaring against the synthetic, ever-burning material shaped like wood. He thinks about Oberon’s robe in his hands, the rich feeling of the fabric, laboured over, to be worn once and then never again. He thinks about this nice, convenient, perfect cage Oberon led him into practically dick first.

Shin thinks about how much he’d rather be on the Derelict right now.

He laughs. 

Drifter looks up from his casual looting. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Shin’s chin drops to his chest, eyes half-closed as he watches Drifter’s shadow flicker in the firelight. “I just fell for a stupid trap.”

“No offence, but it’s about time some bad luck caught up with ya.”

Another laugh burbles up from Shin’s chest, one that makes him throw his head back and practically barks the wild sound at the ceiling. “Bad luck’s been at my heels since Yor.” His eyes burn and he keeps his head tilted up, focusing on the golden leaves a warm tone against the stark white. “Every step, it’s there. Any time I think I have a chance at something- something-”

He bites down on his own admission, turning away from the Drifter’s flickering shadow so he can lean over the desk, to angrily wipe the heat from his eyes. He ends up smearing more makeup against the back of his hand. It’s better than letting Drifter see the brief lapse and he lets out a steadying breath, preparing to turn back.

But there’s a touch at his back. Not a knife between his shoulder blades. 

Just Drifter’s warm hand resting there. 

“I know. Sometimes you just want it to be perfect. But that’s not for bastards like us.”

Drifter pats his back twice: the first one genuine, the second awkward. That warm hand is gone in an instant as he turns back to his pillaging. He doesn’t get back to the shelves, a tug at his sleeve stopping him. Shin’s fingers pinch around the rich brocade and with a deliberate tug, the robe slides down Drifter’s arm, pooling at his elbows to reveal the suit beneath. The gunslinger can feel the Drifter breathe in, preparing, but he doesn’t lean in. Instead, he runs his fingers along the silk, the golden thread at the cuff, and the delicate needlework. All hand-made, all painstakingly created by the man wearing it, proud to wear it.

“You look good,” says Shin.

Drifter allows a momentary expression of shock across his face but it’s replaced with a knowing smile. His gloved hands slide up Shin’s front, pulling at the lapels of his rented suit. Shin is hyperaware of just how plain he looks compared to the shimmering chameleon the Drifter is. Shin never changes his spots while Drifter delights in having spots, stripes, and anything else he can blend in with.

“And you look outta place.” Drifter leans in closer. “All that time spent bein’ someone else and you’re gonna keep forgettin’.”

“That’d be good for you.”

Drifter’s hands play with the folds Shin’s collar. “I prefer knowin’ the man behind the trigger.”

Shin isn’t sure if he’s following the pull of Drifter’s hand or he leans forward all of his own accord, but he’s kissing Drifter a breath later. It isn’t as hurried, as vicious as the one with Oberon had been, there’s an acceptance of each other’s mistakes, that doesn’t make every kiss a battle. Instead, the mutual understanding leads to a slower kiss, one where Shin isn’t in his head, thinking how he’s going to leave a mark.

His hands are already pressing past the numerous layers of Drifter’s clothes, trying to get to his skin. As soon as he can push the silk of his undershirt away and reach the scarred, slightly hairy, chest beneath, Shin lowers his head and starts kissing at his sternum. He can feel the hurried beating of Drifter’s heart against his lips and it makes him smile as he continues to pet warm hands over Drifter’s sides, pressing more and more of his clothing aside to reach skin. His hands are hot, Light responding to the uptick of his own pulse, and Drifter’s skin is getting warmer.

And then the firm feeling of Drifter’s body is gone. Shin watches the Drifter slip towards the desk, takes one look at it, and knocks all off the papers, pens, a lamp, and other supplies off. He hefts himself up onto the desk and then gives Shin the look that says he can continue. It’s similar to how undone Oberon looked, but twice as inviting. 

Shin discards his own suit jacket, surging back for Drifter. They’re kissing again, Drifter’s fingers clever and quick on the buttons of his waistcoat, holding Shin off just long enough for a few quick, wet kisses before Shin’s back to Drifter’s chest. One hand circles a nipple, pinching just shy of mean so Drifter pushes his chest forward and into Shin’s waiting mouth. His tongue lathes against Drifter’s chest, teeth skimming his nipple in time with another flick of his fingers against the other.

Above him, Drifter curses, a hand resting in the nape of Shin’s neck, thumb stroking along the short hair there. Not commanding, not demanding, but guiding. Because Shin knows what Drifter wants, knows to be a little mean until Drifter gets tired of it and demands Shin’s throat instead. Knows that so much of this is just pretending and that between them actions speak so much louder than words.

So Shin takes care of him. Is mean until Drifter’s kneeing him gently and undoing his own belt. They part the robes together and Shin lowers himself between Drifter’s thighs, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his pants as Drifter hisses at Shin’s too-hot hand wrapping around his dick. 

“Think he’s got any fancy lube?” Drifter asks, leaning back to poke around desk drawers, as if Shin wasn’t the most interesting thing in the room. The effect is largely ruined by the curse that leaves him as the gunslinger takes just the head of his cock between his lips. Drifter’s hands tighten, almost painfully, in Shin’s hair which he takes as encouragement, sliding further down until Shin’s practically choking and Drifter is writhing enough to make the desk rattle. The head of his cock brushes the back of Shin’s throat and he swallows, which Drifter rewards with more cursing mixed with begging and fingers twisting in his hair.

It’s a better compliment than all of Oberon’s flirting.

Shin balances one hand on Drifter’s leg, ignoring his own hardness in favour of spoiling the man in front of him. He swallows again, just to hear the sound, pulling back to kiss and lap at the head, fingers trailing down to Drifter’s balls, squeezing them just shy of painful. It’s enough that Drifter’s cock twitches, precum oozing from the head, and he’s pushing Shin back down. Shin goes willingly, the slide easier, enough so that when he reaches the base again, he looks up at Drifter.

He wonders if he looks as undone and needy as Drifter does above him.

Then, Drifter’s head tilts back as he groans. There’s a spurt of warmth at the back of Shin’s throat and he swallows best he can. He pulls back, giving one mean little pump to Drifter’s softening cock and earns himself a fond knock against his head. Shin wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, almost getting up, but Drifter’s fingers linger at his temple. They slide down Shin’s still face, taking his chin. 

This time, Shin doesn’t pull back.

“My place?”

Shin closes his eyes, lets himself rest in Drifter’s hand for a moment. 

“Thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @comptinewrites on twitter


End file.
